


final buzzer.

by richttps



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Basketball, M/M, Past Relationship(s), blowjob(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:18:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17204945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richttps/pseuds/richttps
Summary: The only thing worse than NBA basketball, Mike thinks, is College basketball.His life is also not a romance movie.or, Mike & Richie meet at a college basketball game. Mike struggles to trust anyone that likes basketball, only it’s not his choice once he’s met Richie.





	final buzzer.

**Author's Note:**

> secret santa gift for @beepbeepbitchard on tumblr. 
> 
> i tried to keep this as short as possible but get the story to run smoothly! i hope you all enjoy a bit of hanzier.

The only thing worse than NBA Basketball, Mike thinks, is College Basketball.

Every Thursday, thousands upon thousands of booze drunk students cram into ass-numbing stands in order to chant along to the symphony of squeaking shoes against glossed flooring. In return, they’re gifted with pounding headaches and shuffled out of the double doors with a kick to the shin. Charming, _really._

What’s even more charming than sweaty men playing with balls together is the fresh, _cold cup_  of beer that’s been knocked all down the front of his t-shirt. (His sarcasm is also quite charming if he does say so himself). And, to reallysolidify this night, the corporate is now completely shirtless in front of him offering up his jersey like it physically pains him to do so.

Mike’s not even sure when he’d taken his shirt off, _who just takes their shirt off?_ “Um, I don’t think that’s necessary?”

The sigh of relief the other exudes should be insulting, but Mike is on the edge of releasing one himself. “Oh, _thank god.”_ The stranger mumbles, shrugging the tank back onto his slender shoulders. “Listen, I’m really sorry, man. Wasn’t really aware of where I was goin’.”

 _Obviously,_ Mike wants to say but retorts to a simple curt nod of his head. “It happens, yeah.”

The boy glances up at the hanging flat screen, worrying his bottom lip as the seconds tick down until halftime is buzzed over. Mike takes advantage of this time to gaze at the features presented in front of him -- Natural waves of brown that frame the milky skin and tighten in springs towards the base of his neck due to the sheen of sweat that glows under the overhead beams. Thick wireframes map around his eyes to magnify the emerald green behind them and drift down to red, bitten lips. In any other situation, Mike would’ve found him intriguing, maybe even let the soaked cotton of his shirt sculpt out the body beneath it instead of stretching it out between two fingers.

Disappointingly enough though, he’s a basketball fan. A _College_ Basketball fan. The type that most likely has more team shirts rather than casualwear and a museum of snapbacks tucked away in their closet. It’s enough to make Mike shudder, snapping the green eyes right back onto his own.

“Do you want, like, napkins? Or -- um, _napkins?_ ”

“Napkins would be helpful,” Mike says, dully. He inhales a deep breath as the other jogs off in a direction that Mike assumeswill result in something to dry himself off.

He stands awkwardly in the middle of a concession stand hallway, fans still lingering about with their own beverages in hand as they make their way back to their seats. There are only a few concerned glances that he smiles off, hoping that no one decides to stop and check in on the student standing alone with beer down his front. He uses this downtime waiting for the boy to return -- if he ever does, to formulate the argument against Stan as to whyhe’s never getting dragged back here.

The buzzer blaring throughout the stadium is enough to draw Mike from his thoughts, as well as the heavy panting notifying that the other did indeed return. He appears more sweaty than before and Mike can’t help but wonder how far he’d needed to run just for a few napkins clutched in his whitening fist.

“Napkins,” He breathes, out of breath. “Had to run to the other side to get them.”

Mike nods, looking up to catch his eyes and reaching out for the bunched up white paper. “Thank you. Thought I was gonna have to drink the beer out of my shirt.”

The boy laughs loudly, startling himself as he slaps a hand over his own mouth. It’s embarrassing -- Well, it should be, but Mike can’t help the small twitch of his lips as he dabs over the golden stain on his shirt, already drying under the AC. “Almost like a free drink. You’re welcome.”

He hums in response, deciding the focus on the spill rather than the distraction opposite of him.

“I’m Richie,” The boy — Richie, chimes in. He’s switching off scuffing each sneaker into the flooring like he’s unable to stand still. “In case you were curious, or just, yeah. It’s Richie.”

“Richie,” Mike repeats back, receiving a bright smile in return. He tosses the mess of napkins into a nearby waste bin before straightening himself out. “Well, Richie, thank you for the beer. I should probably let you get back to the game now.”

Mike turns to walk in the direction of the exit, officially deciding that trudging back into the stands would be more of a punishment. He’s more than confident that Stan will be fine on his own, he’ll even remember to explain this story as his apology.

Richie coughing into his fist halts the movement of his feet, leaving him to glance over his shoulder at where he’s stood exactly how Mike left him. “You’re not going back in?”

“Not really a fan of Basketball, and you’ve just given me an excuse to leave,” Mike points down at his shirt, waiting for Richie’s eyes to follow. “Might as well take advantage of it.”

He watches a flash of disappointment shine over Richie’s neutral expression, quickly clearing as he clears his throat. “Right,” He nods. “Enjoy your night then, don’t let the beer knock ya out.”

With that, Mike offers a two-fingered salute and slips out into the cold breeze. He can still feel a stare on his back like it’s a target, and he most definitelydoesn’t let his thoughts wander back to freckled cheeks and flushed skin.

 

* * *

 

Consistent drumming of fists against his door is what startles Mike awake. Bleary-eyed and brain fogged, he opens up to a rambling Stan storming into the middle of his dorm.

“You’re kind of a dick, did you know that?”

“You don’t mean that,” Mike argues but allows Stan to continue since he hadn’t finished pointing a stern finger where Mike’s now settled against the couch cushions.

“You just — You left!” He waves a hand about. “No explanation, nothing. I waited around for an _hour_ hoping you’d show up.”

If Mikes learned anything after being friends with Stan for four years, it’s to never interrupt him during a proper scolding. He watches, innocently bobbing his head when necessary as Stan paces against the shaggy carpeting.

“Where were you?” Stan finishes. Eyes locked on Mike’s relaxed form. “You said you were going to the bathroom and then — _poof,_  you’re MIA.”

“This guy, Richie, bumped into me on the way,” He explains. “Spilled his drink and I ended up leaving to clean up the mess.”

An amused chuckle erupts from Stan, almost manic. Worrying, _maybe._ “Is that code word for you taking a guy home?”

And, what? _What?_

“What?” Mike draws his eyebrows together, already shaking his head violently. “God no. He really spilled his drink on me.”

“Doesn’t mean you had to leave,” Stan grumbles, anger already seeping out of him. “And don’t pull that ‘ _I hate basketball’_ speech.”

“But I _do_ hate Basketball,” He whines, slumping back further. “It’s not my fault you keep making me go with you so you can drool over Bill.”

“Was he cute at least?” Stan settles down beside him, curious eyes tracing his neck as if he’d find marks of Mike’s lies.

“Cute? Sure,” _He was._ Mike’s willing to admit that. “Total Basketball fan though.”

Stan groans, head falling back against the headrest. “Do notstart that. Liking Basketball doesn’t mean anything, for all you know he could hate it and be just supporting the school.”

“He was wearing a jersey, Stan.”

“Yeah, and? Jersey’s don’t mean anything.”

“They mean everything, all those guys are self-centered just like—” Mike explains, cutting himself short. “Besides, this isn’t like some romance movie where we bump into each other and it’s love at first sight.”

 

* * *

 

 _Boy,_ was Mike wrong.

The moment he’s clocked out from his shift in the on-campus library, he’s colliding shoulder first into someone. And, _honestly,_ if this keeps happening Mike will be forced to drop out.

“Fuck, shit — Ow.” He can feel hands clutched at his arms, making sure he’s stable before dropping back off and allowing him to put together his best scowl.

Of course, it’s wiped off his face the second he’s met with the familiar smile.

“ _Hey,_ ” He sing-songs, drawing out the word obnoxiously. He’s still kneading a hand into his own shoulder from the impact. “Beer shirt.”

Richie. _Richie._

The thing is, the University is big — Really big. Big enough that the chances of you seeing the same person more than once are highly unlikely.

“Clever nickname,” Mike snorts, adjusting the strap of his bag. It’s not clever. “Original.”

Richie’s eyes scan down the length of Mike’s body, not subtle at all. Even less subtle when he draws back up with a lick of his lips. “Never gave me your name. So, beer shirt.”

“Beer shirt which was _your_ fault, if I remember correctly.” He retorts, arms folding across his chest.

There’s an expectant look on Richie’s face as if Mike owes him something. He can’t help but notice that _this_ Richie is different than last nights Richie, there’s confidence set in his shoulders. Chin held high instead of crowding down towards his chest with uncertainty.

“Mike,” He answers. “Not beer shirt.”

A winning smile grows on Richie’s face, caving in on his cheeks and revealing the slightest of dimples that Mike wants to drag his lips on. Which, _no._

“Mike,” He repeats, much like last night. “Sorry about running into you again.”

He doesn’t look sorry, Mike notes, far from it.

“Think it was my fault this time, but I’ll accept it.”

They both stand silently, Richie swaying and Mike stock still. Their eyes remain locked on each other’s, and it’s not even remotely awkward — It’s almost to the point where Mike doesn’t _want_ to look away.

He thinks back to Stan and their earlier conversation, causing him to shake himself out of his haze with an apologetic twist of his lips. “Uh, well, it was nice bumping into you again?”

He notices the way Richie blinks twice quickly, mutually bringing himself back to reality before growing a confused expression. Although, it looks more like a sulking puppy rather than a College boy. 

 _Adorable,_  Mike thinks.

“Not a fan of libraries either?” Richie asks, taking a step back to allow Mike to maneuver past if needed.

“That’s not — No, I actually work here. Quite fond of libraries.”

Richie hums in agreement. “Can I make it up to you?”

Mike notices he’s starting the scuffing of shoes again. “Make what up?”

“Bumping into you twice now, I feel like I should make amends,” He says. “If you want to.”

Mike wants to, more than anything, but the situation is all too familiar to his past. The longing glances and the sultry eyes, the _jock_ look paired with a jock attitude. Something within him screams that Richie isn’t that, but he knows little to nothing about this kid besides their two conversations that both happened within twenty-four hours.

He means to decline, he reallydoes. The words already formulated on his tongue with practiced reflex, but when his lips part to speak, he’s betrayed by his own mouth.

“Yeah, sure.” He plasters a fake grin on his face, hoping to conceal the inner whining he’s dealing with.

Richie visibly lights up, Mike’s almost worried that it’s impossible to glow so suddenly and as quickly as he did, but then he’s collecting himself and fishing for his phone. “Sick, cool. Alright, just — You can put your number in my phone and I’ll text you?”

Mike does. As much as the logical side of his brain tells him not to, his fingers type on their own. And, when he hands the phone back to Richie with a shaking palm, Richie masks it with his own, thumb running against the vein on the back of Mike’s palm before waving and brushing past him with a gentle, lighthearted shove that has Mike blushing towards the ground.

 

* * *

 

_Bball game. 7 pm, meet outside?_

Mike’s been blankly staring at the screen of his phone, text message taunting him with annoyance. This being the exact reason why he should’ve declined going out with Richie, especially so quickly.

It’s been a full week since he’s seen him, but he’s been bombarded with text messages. All of which had no purpose, they were filled with random facts and numerous jokes that Mike never understood but claimed he was laughing alongside him.

He curses out loud, locking his phone with a click and curling in on himself until his forehead connects with the wood of his own desk.

“That bad?” Stan questions from across the room, tone laced with amusement.

“ _Yes,_  that bad. He wants to go to the game,” Mike wallows, tone sulking. “Out of all the places, Stan.”

There’s a quiet chuckle drawing closer to him, warm palm settling on his shoulder before he’s being lifted with the grip. “Better get ready then,” Stan gleams. “You can walk with me there.”

Which, he does. After settling on a bulky sweatshirt and jeans, Mike’s walking along the cemented ground towards the booming stadium with Stan beside him.

“At least pretend to be excited,” Stan threatens, his own hands burrowed deep into his pockets. “It’s just a game.”

_Just a game._

“I’m going to make this game the _best_ game he’s been to.”

 

* * *

 

Mike’s two beers into the first quarter and he can already feel the groans bubbling in his throat.

It doesn’t help that Richie completely halted his plans of disaster from the start. Instead of being greeted with a decked out appearance, Richie was stood outside the doors with a simple graphic tee and black jeans. Not even remotely close to what Mike was expecting.

Now, he’s pressed against Richie in his seat trying to deliberate whether or not that'll work in his favor or Richie’s.

When Richie raises from his seat with a shout, screaming profanities at a bad call from the referee, Mike decides it’s his. He smirks up at Richie’s standing form, arms stretched out in front of him in anger before he’s slumping back into the seat with a groan.

“I fucking hate this sport,” He moans, not sparing Mike a glance. “Might have to join your club.”

“Might have to.” Mike agrees with no real commitment, downing the rest of his beverage in one gulp.

Richie’s eyes finally drifted over to him, teeth sunken into his bottom lip as he takes in Mike’s empty cup. “Thirsty?”

He nods. “Would you mind getting me another?”

Mike can see the worried lines forming between his eyebrows, glancing at the scoreboard and listening in on the chants around him. He’s exactly where Mike wants him.

“This quarters almost over and then I’ll head up, yeah?”

With a pout of his bottom lip, Mike tips the cup towards him. “I’m really, _really_ thirsty.”

He keeps his eyes on Richie, studying the internal struggle he must be having before he’s reaching out and taking Mike’s cup and standing from his seat again, but making no moves to look away from the court as he steps over numerous legs.

“Be back in a quick second.” He calls back, waving over his head at Mike.

Mike keeps his eye on him before he’s disappearing into the tunnel leading out into the main center. Once he’s out of sight, he twists in his seat and counts down the quarter to himself.

The buzzer cries out by the time Mike hits thirty seconds, finalizing with a score to their home team that was important enough that fans are hollering in their seats.

He doesn’t notice Richie barreling down the stairs and shoving past with a full cup of beer for Mike before he’s sitting back down and blindly handing it off to Mike.

“What’d I miss?” Richie shouts over the cheering.

“Dunno. Wasn’t paying attention.” Mike replies, already sipping down the foam. The wave of lightness swarming in his head and warming his skin.

There’s another concerned glance from Richie as he leans back further in his chair, giving up all the attention of the court.

“You never explained to me why you don’t like Basketball,” He states. “Did it break your heart?”

“Something like that.” Mike laughs it off, not intending to sound so at ease.

It’s just that, Richie’s good. He’s all smiles and smells like clean linen, maybe a bit of musk. The transition into the final quarter already approached, yet Richie is still approaching Mike like he’s the only thing in the stadium.

He expects Richie to continue to prod, _really dig_  into it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just leans in closer until Mike can feel the flow of breathing against the shell of his ear, tinged with the scent of beer but still enough to zip down his spine with an electric surge.

Mike remains completely still, fingers digging craters into his thighs as he hears Richie release a breath of laughter like he’s unable to speak the sentence without threatening the break.

“Do you think Number six knows his girlfriend is two seats away from us with another guy?”

He can’t help but peek past Richie, catching sight of a girl with flirty eyes talk to the stranger next to her. The chuckle he does upon seeing it is accidental because it’s sort of sick — the situation.

“Kind of fucked up,” Mike huffs, turning his head until he’s face to face with Richie. It knocks the air out of him seeing how close they are, both their lines of sight running down to the other's lips. “Think he knows?”

“Nah,” Richie declares, tipping his chin back to the court where Number six is standing on the sidelines chattering distracting with the student yearbook boy as if he’s not in the midst of a game. “Think he’s too busy to worry about that.”

A surprised gasp has Mike gripping onto Richie’s forearm, causing Richie’s arm to tense at the surprise but immediately relax. “They’re both — _Jesus._ How’d you know that?”

“You think I watch the game?” He counters, catching Mike off guard with a taunting look. “I mean, I _watch the_  game, but I don’t just watch the game. It’s more fun to people watch.”

If Mike’s heart beats a bit harder against the cage in his chest, that's neither here nor there.

He sets his cup into the holder of his chair, removing his other grip from Richie with wide eyes. “I never thought of that.”

“Try it,” Richie says, simply.

There’s a moment of hesitation where Mike soaks in the atmosphere, studying those who walk by erupting with laughter and those who are sucking face with the person next to them. All the while, Richie watches in amusement.

“How about,” Richie starts again. “Coach B, what do you think he did before the game?”

Confusion settles on Mike’s face when Richie points him out, he’s tapping his own fingers against his chin in order to speed up his creativity but he’s got nothing. The coach is just pacing up and down the court casually, there’s nothing standing out to him.

“Doesn’t look like he did anything, he’s just being normal,” Mike concludes, earning a _tsk from_  Richie.

“That’s where you’re wrong, my good lad,” Richie leans in further. “Before this, he was crying in his car whilst listening to none other than,” He pauses dramatically. “Bennie and the Jets, Elton John.”

“Bennie and the Jets?” Mike scoffs, shaking his head. “That makes no sense. Where’d you come up with that?”

The devilish smirk on Richie’s face is intoxicating. “I’m just that good,” He tuts, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “I also just happened to walk past him before I got here.”

Mike can’t help but snort, Richie’s antics completely overthrowing the fact that they’re in the midst of a Basketball game. Not once has he felt this at ease during the ruckus of school sports, but he feels light and airy.

“That’s ridiculous, who cries to that song? It’s not even sad!” He exasperates, hands thrown out in front of him with even more laughter. This time, Richie joins in.

They spend much of the last quarter like this, murmuring into each other's ears about people in the stands as well as the court, and Mike’s aware that he’s never laughed for as long as he has with Richie. His stomach cramped up but the time the final buzzer rings throughout the stadium, people piling out of the stands with excitement.

The final score reads that they’ve won, which would explain the gleeful look on Richie’s face as he rises up.

“Comin?” He offers, shrugging his hands into the pouch of his sweater before Mike’s following him outdoors.

 

* * *

 

The air is light as they walk, chilled but heat erupting from where his shoulder is pressed against Richie’s.

He’s been a stream of joke more than half the walk back to Mike’s dorm, bouncing with energy and having the readjust his glasses with every trip of footing that has Mike breathless with joy.

Now, it’s quiet. The only noise is the buzzing of crickets or the distant chatter of other students. All of which isn’t crushing the comfort between the two, something Mike is unfamiliar with. The thought sends a chill over his skin, erupting with goosebumps and has his mouth moving without his knowledge.

“Uh, I knew this guy, kind of an asshole,” He begins, clearing his throat with uncertainty. “We met at a basketball game, which is why — It’s why I don’t care for the sport.”

This must catch Richie off guard, steps stuttering so he’s pacing himself with Mike. “What happened?”

And, isn’t that the golden question.

“Just on different pages, he didn’t love me in the way that I loved him.”

Richie hums. “What a dick.”

“You could say that,” Mike huffs. “Sorry to put a damper on your mood, but you asked earlier so.”

“Hey, it’s alright. Where does the game come into play though?” There’s a hint in Richie’s tone that leaves a loophole, one that allows Mike immunity, not the answer.

The question stirs Mike’s mind because he’s never contemplated an answer for that, it always just was the way it was. Simple.

“Dunno, to be honest. I never really cared for it, to begin with, always thought it was boring and then it just had memories with it,” He continues. “It’s more just that I think it’s boring than anything.”

“Are you saying you were bored with me?” Richie mocks, a hand placed over his heart. “I’m wounded, that’s no way to treat a date.”

_A date?_

“Date?” Mike questions, no real anger behind it. “Aren’t you supposed to consent me with a date? Starting to feel a bit skeptical of you.”

And right back where they left off, Richie booms with a honking laugh. It’s as if that triggers some chemical in his brain to go mental with carefreeness.

It lasts up until they’re stood outside the door of Mike’s room, both standing with no hurry to leave. Mike itches to act on something, and he notices the same struggle Richie’s face in front of him. Lip familiarly stuck between his teeth and eyes flickering back and forth between Mike’s eyes and lips.

He leans back against the door, head thudding lightly with a smirk. Is this kid real? He’s beginning to think his life really is a romance movie.

“Do I get to assume something about you now?” Mike asks. “Like at the game?”

Richie’s pulled out of his haze at the sound of his voice, eyes remaining on his and he furrows his brows. “If you want, yeah,” He stands tall now, chin tilted as if he’s trying to appear more presented. “Let ‘er rip.”

Mike glances down at his feet, sniffling through his nose before looking back up. “You want to kiss me.”

A choked off sound comes from Richie’s mouth, stumbling back on his footing. Mike knows he’s got him. “Am I wrong?”

“Well I -- I, uh, I” Richie blabbers, blinking uncontrollably. “You’re not wrong, no.”

Mike just nods, hoping it conveys his approval.

_It does._

Within one big stride, Richie’s in Mike’s orbit. Reaching out to smooth his palm against his jaw, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. It erupts through Mike’s body, warmth flooding through every vein and dissolving where it touches. He doesn’t think before he’s closing the gap between the two, lips meeting lips hurriedly.

He releases a content sigh against chapped lips, but plush and warm against his. They move together instantly, clutching at each other's jaws with cramped hands, bodies drawing into each other until there’s no place to go.

They break apart on a breath, not parting their bodies long enough before Mike’s surging forward, capturing Richie’s lips again, drawing him further until Mike’s back in pressed against the wooden door, a groan erupting when Richie’s fingers dig into the cloth of his t-shirt.

It tastes like beer, fizzy and strong against their tongues when Mike delves into Richie’s mouth.

Mike doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed the taste more than he does right now.

Their breathing picks up, chests heaving against each other as they dominate against each other, slick spit swapping between the two -- Hips colliding and pushing against each other with a rushed urgency. It’s been solong since Mike’s felt the physical contact against him, warm and addicting.

“Fuck,” He grits out once Richie’s lips trail down his jaw, neck, Mike’s head falling back against the door as he continues to the juncture of his neck before sucking a bruise into the heated skin. “Inside.”

They move quickly, Mike pushing at Richie’s shoulder to extract him from the comfort of his neck before reaching behind him for the doorknob and falling inside. Hands roam all over his body, dragging down his arms and torso as he blindly leads them back towards his bedroom. Feet stumble and breathless laughs fill between the breaks of lips.

He refrains from adjusting to the situation, doesn’t want to think about the escalation. Within a week, he’s managed to wound himself up into someone else. And, fuck, it doesn’t feel wrong. He never thought he’d trust someone, too scared to fall, but the feeling of Richie’s lips against his is full of power, enough to have his knees weak and stubborn whines parting from his lips when Richie knocks him against the mattress.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Richie halts him, voice breaking like he doesn’t want to. Mike’s fingers stop where they’re pulling at the button on his jeans, but not moving. “You’ve been drinking, I don’t want to, like, I just.”

Mike shakes his head quickly. “Not drunk,” He rushes on a gulp. “Promise, I’m not drunk.”

“Okay.”

Matching fingers reach for his own pants, pulling the seam apart at the same urgency as Mike before they’re both shoving each other's pants down, hips lifting off the bed until they’re both naked from the waist down.

Richie’s gaze never rests, constantly roaming Mike’s body. He’s always considered himself confident in bed, but underneath Richie, he can’t help but feel the need to cover at least some of his dignity. Neither are fully hard yet, half-hard resting against his thigh before Richie’s reaching down between their bodies and enveloping Mike’s cock with a warm palm.

“Warn a guy,” Mike moans, breathless as Richie’s hand draws up. “ _Fuck.”_

“Wanna suck you off,” Richie replies, drawing the foreskin up over the head of Mike’s cock before twisting down quickly. The perfect amount of pressure and twisting of his wrist to have his vision clouding over with pleasure. “Can I?”

Mike ruts up against his hand, fully hard. He can feel Richie’s cock against his thigh, leaking just from touching him and if that isn’t enough to have Mike swallowing down another helpless moan, the way Richie’s pleading eyes are burning into Mike’s is it.

“Yeah,” He pants out. “Yes.”

Richie grinds down hard, unable to stop himself before shimmying down the lengths of his bed. Mike’s thighs part naturally, falling beside Richie’s head with no shame as hot breath wafts against him.

A swipe of Richie’s thumb against the slit has Mike rising onto his elbows, chin tilting towards his chest to get a good look at the boy between his legs. He doesn’t think there’s a better sight than Richie tugging quickly and rough, having Mike gasping into the quiet air.

“Good?” Richie asks, eyes flicking up to make sure Mike’s comfortable.

 _More than,_  Mike wants to say, but his tongue is numb and incapable of working. He lifts his hips into the air, hoping it’ll justify that this is extremelyokay. Richie catches on, Mike concludes, with the way his tongue drags against the underside of Mike’s cock, trailing against the vein.

He hollows his cheeks, sinking down slowly like he’s allowing his throat to adjust and open up. All Mike can do is watch, eyes refusing to move away. It isn’t until he feels the head of his cock bump against the back of Richie’s throat that Mike release any sort of noise, Richie swallows around him effortlessly, and _Jesus._ This is going to be over before it’s started.

“I’m not gonna last long,” He warns, hand coming to rest in Richie’s hair as he bobs along. “So good.”

Long fingers brush past Mike’s dick, landing on his balls before rolling them around in his palm. His thighs twitch beside Richie’s head, refraining from planting his feet into the mattress and driving himself up into the wet heat of Richie’s mouth.

He’s settled into a babbling mess, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut as strings of curse words dissolve themselves into Richie’s ears. It works as encouragement because Richie continues to sink down further, pulling up with a swirl of his tongue around the tip and delving back down with suction of his lips.

“Richie, _I’m gonna,_ ” His fingers tighten on the strands between his fingers, pulling in an attempt to get him off, but Richie just suckles on the head. “Fuck, seriously, if you don’t --”

Abandoning all sentences, Mike slumps back against the mattress, vision blacking out when the tip of a dry finger brushes between his legs and prods against his hole. The simple touch has Mike coming instantly, dick twitching against Richie’s lips as he throws an arm over his face.

It isn’t until he feels Richie climbing back over him that Mike adjusts his vision to the face in front of him, eyes glossy and lips swelled pink with spit. It’s fucking breathtaking, is what it is. His hand clutches the back of Richie’s neck, dragging him down into a sloppy kiss that has a salty aftertaste.

He can feel Richie still hard against his hip, thighs clenched around his waist from where he’s straddling him. “Want me to?” He questions, eyebrow cocked and he motions towards Richie’s lower half.

Richie doesn’t answer, he just lifts himself sitting upright, leaning behind himself to grip and Mike’s thighs. Cock standing in Mike’s frame of sight, practically begging to be touched.

A few minutes after getting his hand on him, Richie’s shooting off with a scratchy groan. He paints his own chest white with come, some landing on Mike’s own, but he doesn’t seem to mind the mess when Richie collapses on top of him.

They drift off like that, both unable to move their limbs, and Mike can’t help but hope that he wakes up with the same mouthful of curls.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t.

Instead, he woke up to an empty bed. A _week_ ago.

There are multiple unanswered texts on his phone, all of which are from Richie. They started off casual, trying to start up a conversation and slowly grew more anxious.

In Mike’s mind, he has every right to be angry. Richie was supposed to be there, he was supposed to greet him good morning. He was supposed to be _different._ And, there’s part of Mike that wants to give him the benefit of the doubt because he’s the one that’s left him ignored while Richie’s attempting to explain, but Mike’s been through this before and he’s not going through it again.

So, when Richie comes ambling into the library during his shift with a worrying expression, Mike has to resist the way it melts his heart.

“Mike,” He starts, fingers tapping against the table Mike’s perched behind. “Hi.”

He greets him back with an unimpressed look. “Stalking me?”

Richie laughs, but not in a way that signals he finds it amusing but rather he’s been stuck in an uncomfortable situation. “Kind of what happens when you ignore my texts? Just wanted to see if you’re alright.”

“Fine,” Mike deadpans. “Thanks for stopping by.”

He goes to turn away towards the stack of books that need to be branded with a return label, but fingers grab his forearm before he can complete the turn. It feels a bit like deja vu, and he can’t help himself sparing Richie a glance as he speaks.

“Did I do something?” He asks, insecurity in his voice. “If I did, I didn’t mean to. I really like you, Mike.”

The pang in Mike’s chest lurches, he _almost drops_  everything. Richie looks so soft and small, tucked into his clothes and head ducked as if Mike would lash out at him.

“You don’t mean that,” He explains, eyes honest. “I’ve heard this line before, so save it.”

With that, he forces himself to turn around, shrugging off Richie’s hand before disappearing into the back for a breath. He can hear Richie curse and the footsteps retreating away from the desk, and he gives himself to pity himself and Richie, eyes shut and fingers twitching to go after him.

 

* * *

 

And, If Mike saves the note that’s stuck to his door reading ‘ _it wasn’t a line.’_ in Richie’s writing, no one has to know.

 

* * *

 

“He likes you, you know,” Stan announces after the door shuts behind him, startling Mike from his position on the couch.

“What?”

“That Richie kid, he likes you,” He says. “Like _really_ likes you, proper romance movie.”

The bewildered look Mike has on his face seems to throw Stan off. “How do you know Richie?”

Stan glances from Mike to the front door, mouth stuffed with food he’d stolen from the fridge. “He’s sitting outside.”

He says it nonchalant as if Mike would’ve known that Richie’s sitting out front of his door. He didn’t even _knock._ Who just shows up at someone's dorm and sits there?

“What?” He repeats himself, pushing himself off the cushions to peer out of the peephole, where in fact there’s Richie leaning against the wall casually.

For fuck's sake.

“Stop saying what,” Stan grumbles, stealing Mike’s previous thought and motioning towards the door. “You gonna go out there?”

He wants to. Honestly, he does. More than anything he wants to walk out and forget everything and just accept that fact that his life is this way.

“No,” He settles, hurrying away from the door in case his voice traveled. “He’ll leave eventually.”

“Why don’t you just tell him you don’t like him?”

That’d be the easy route, to simply admit that he’s got no interest in Richie whatsoever, but it’d be a lie. He’s learned the bare minimum about him, but it feels as though there’s everything he needs to know right there.

“Cause I do like him, that’s not the issue,” He mumbles, flopping back down. “He doesn’t like me.”

Stan rolls his eyes, knocking Mike’s shoulder with his fist. “You sound like you’re in primary school, he likes you. He told me before I walked in.”

A smile threatens Mike’s lips, corners twitching up involuntarily and Mike tries his best to hide it. “He’s just guilty that he left me the next morning.”

“You dumbass, he’s standing outside your door.”

“Yeah, and?”

Stan huffs, shifting his body so he’s leaning against the backrest and facing Mike with an unamused look. “You were in the same position when you were with  _you know who_ , you waited outside his door while he sat in his room and ignored you.”

_Fuck._

“And for acting like you’re saving yourself for heartbreak,” Stan continues. “You’re acting just the way you don’t want. You’re being just like  _him._ ”

Double _fuck._

“So, what am I supposed to do?” Mike questions, fingernails picking against the loose string of his sweatpants.

“Give him a chance, maybe? I don’t know, call me crazy.”

At that exact moment, a noise coming from the door catches both their attention. A CD sliding underneath the sliver of space beneath the door slides across the carpeting and catching Mike’s breath in his throat as he walks over to it and picks it up, studying to words on it.

_Bennie and the Jets._

“What is it?” Stan prods.

Mike can only hear the strong thrusting of his heart in his ears, fingers shaking against the plastic covering. The only thing that’s flowing through his mind is _HeLikesMeHeLikesMe._

“I’m coming with you to the game tonight.” He says instead of explaining, abandoning the CD on the ground before shutting his bedroom door behind him.

He doesn’t have a plan, but he knows what he has to do now.

 

* * *

 

By the time the sun settles and thousands of fans pack into the stadium, excitement bouncing off of the walls, Mike feels as though it’s the first night all over again.

There’s a swarm of students caving in and stacking themselves in seats and there’s possibly no way he could find Richie within a group this big.

He let Stan drift off on his own, murmured excuse of having to go see Bill before the game starts, and now he’s stood alone. He isn’t sure where to begin, but he’s sure that standing in the middle of a concession rush isn’t the place.

He’s about to step out of the stadium and admit defeat before someone’s shoving into his back and grumbling about getting out of the way. He turns around so quickly, it should result in whiplash, but he only knows one person who’s unable to steer themselves around properly.

“Rich-” The words die in his throat once he’s face to face with the other person.

It’s definitely not Richie, this person is much shorter. Brown fringe across their forehead and doe eyes looking startled by how intense Mike must look. He falters a bit, shoulders falling forward.

“Sorry about that.” He explains, waving politely to let the other person step past.

“Are you looking for someone?” The stranger questions, eyebrows drawn together.

“Oh, um. Yeah, sorry, I thought you were them.”

“Richie, yeah?” The boy asks. His face lighting up at the realization. “I’m Eddie, Richie’s friend. Boy, is he gonna be stoked to know you’re looking for him.”

Mike’s brain takes a second to catch up, replaying the words in his head. Each day gets harder and harder to understand the path of life and how the little details with Richie seem to be falling together. And, he’s never believed in fairytales (which, why is he thinking about fairytales?), but he’d always believed they were sugarcoated.

That doesn’t stop him from releasing a relieved breath, hand coming out to clutch Eddie’s shoulder with a pleading look. “Do you happen to know where he is?”

Eddie jumps up in excitement, a grin plastered on his face as he rushes off to head in the direction that Mike hopes leads to Richie. He doesn’t speak the whole way, just happily keeps waving his hand to make sure Mike’s following before they’re stepping through a tunnel into the screaming crowds.

And, there he is.

Stood by his chair, arms raised in there much like Mike had seen before is Richie. _His_ Richie -- Well, soon to be. Maybe. _Hopefully._

“He’s just right there,” Eddie explains. “Good luck.” He concludes, patting his back before skipping down the steps to another row of his friends.

The nerves hit suddenly, feet planted into the ground when he tries to move them -- tries to take the stairs slowly, but he feels frozen in place. What if everything was wrong? What if _Mike_ was wrong?

“Mike?” His thoughts stop abruptly as he catches Richie stood in the middle of the walkway, far enough that Mike couldn’t reach out to touch him and a startled look on his face.

Mike never wanted to bring that to him, and he never wants to see that look on his face again.

“What are you doing here?” Richie asks again since Mike hadn’t answered, just stood there with a gaping mouth.

“Richie,” Mike starts, feeling the wind knocked out of him. He shakes his head, taking a hesitant step forward and offering his hands up to show he’s harmless. He can see Richie visibly relax at that, face falling into something sweet. And, yes. That’s what Mike wants. “Richie.”

“Hi.” Richie breaths, smile breaking.

Mike shakes his head, gulping. “Don’t talk,” Mike orders, but quickly fixes himself when he sees the expression fall from Richie’s face. “I mean, you can talk, but just wait a second.”

Richie’s lips thin out into a line, eyes trained on Mike as he stutters around his words. He remains silent, urging Mike to continue.

He takes a deep breath and another step. “I don’t like basketball,” He starts, gaining confusion from Richie. “And, I don’t like basketball fans, but _I_ like you.”

“Mik-” Richie tries to interrupt but Mike waves him off.

“But, I like you, and that’s really fucking terrifying to me because I hardly know you,” Another deep breath. “But everything inside of me wants to stay here with you, even if that means I have to watch a shitty sport.”

He chuckles, taking in the other students watching them like they’re more entertaining than the halftime performance taking place on the court. Richie remains completely silent, standing there blank-faced and Mike’s heart breaks into two because although he knew this could’ve been an outcome, he desperately hoped it wasn’t.

Richie raises his eyebrows at him, finger-pointing at his mouth teasingly.

“Oh, right. Fuck, you can talk now.”

It takes a minute, Richie unable to speak words because his smile is so blinding. He opens his mouth to speak over and over again but kills it back down with another smile. And, the thing is, Mike’s not usually impatient, but he just nearly poured his soul out in a stadium and now Richie hasn’t said anything.

It’s that moment that Richie seems to abandon all words and hurriedly climbs the stairs until he’s pressed into Mike’s space, hands gripping Mike’s sweater and tugging him down until their lips are crashing together.

It numbs his mind, the only thing he can do is be present in the moment of Richie’s lips against his. They’re still, just the simple pressure against his own until he’s drawing back mere inches, cloth still bundled up in his fists before whispering.

“It is kind of a shitty sport, isn’t it?”

And then, his lips are back on Mike’s, arms winding themselves around his neck until Mike’s hunched over awkwardly, palms fitting around Richie’s waist as they laugh into each other's mouths.

Now, Mike’s more than willing to admit that his life it a bit like a romance movie.

 

* * *

 

_4 years later._

After all these years, Mike was never able to shake off going to games, but ever since graduating, Richie’s upgraded them to strictly NBA games. (Not better, but not worse).

Surprisingly, Mike finds himself to enjoy them now. Richie started teaching him plays and scoring after they’d come around to getting together, and at some points, Mike’s found himself shouting profanity right alongside Richie. Richie claims Mike’s beginning to like the sport more than himself, but in no way is that possible.

Now, they’re sitting courtside at the final game of the season. Richie manages to steal some tickets last minute and claimed it was a date night, one that they could celebrate their early four year anniversary at. And, as much as Mike wanted to decline, he couldn’t help that he reallywanted to see the game live rather than at their apartment.

As usual, they’ve spent the majority of the game teasing other players and determining at what moments each one is going to fall against the court. Mike’s 5/5 right now, and Richie’s struggling. He thinks it’s because he’s purposely letting Mike win, but he can’t help but notice the nervous tick in Richie’s stance, flinching every time Mike goes to rest his hand against his thigh, which would be hurtful, but Richie still rests his against Mike.

The halftime buzzer chimes in, and the upbeat music begins to play throughout the arena. Sparing one glance up at the widescreen TV, Mike sees the words, _Kiss Cam!_ flash across and he groans audibly. This has become a new game for them, figuring out what kind of kiss is going to present itself and trying to figure out their backstory. (First date, 10-year marriage, things like that).

“Here we go,” Mike mutters, turning his head to glance at Richie, but finding his seat empty next to him. He grows a worried expression, looking off behind him to see if he can catch him stumbling down the stairs with beers in hand, but when he turns back around, he sees him.

On the ground, on one knee.

“Looking for me?” Richie teases, glasses long replaced with contacts but still a mark across his nose from where they’d sat for so long.

Mike’s hand's cup against his mouth, holding back the sob that’s quick to escape. His eyes brim with tears as he sees the gold band in Richie’s hand, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“Baby,” Richie breathes, continuing on. “You know I love you, yeah?” Mike nods. “And, if it weren’t for this shitty fucking sport, I never would’ve met the love of my life.”

This time, Mike lets the choked sob out. He tears his eyes away, as hard as it is, to the screen to see both their bodies magnified in the stadium. The view of Richie on his knees, looking at Mike with so much love is breathtaking that he has to look back at him.

“Marry me?”

Mike’s out of his seat before Richie can finish, grabbing him by the biceps and pulling him from his spot on the ground. His hands find Richie’s face immediately, cupping his cheeks and spreading warm kisses all over his face, each one finished with whispers of 'yes' _._

By the time Richie’s managed to wrestle Mike into standing still and sliding the ring onto his ring finger, Mike’s cheeks are stained wet and have no intentions of stopping.

“I love you.” Richie -- _his fiance,_  assures, hands twined in Mike’s.

Their lips meet again, mixing their tears together and spreading happiness throughout their bodies. Chants of ‘ _aw’s’_ surround them, but all Mike can hear is Richie’s breathing against his lips.

“I love this shitty sport,” Mike whispers once before connecting their lips again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> richardtoz.tumblr.com


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